


Captive Caitiff

by Vyrthium Zasalthir (LibraryZ)



Series: The Defeated; The Victorious [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Dremora (Elder Scrolls), Dubious Consent, M/M, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:41:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26735287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LibraryZ/pseuds/Vyrthium%20Zasalthir
Summary: Kynreeve Zyvaasthir finds himself called to Nirn by his Bosmer master regularly, but after a skooma deal in the Waterfront district goes wrong, he finds himself summoned for a slightly unusual task.
Series: The Defeated; The Victorious [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010448
Kudos: 5





	1. The Deal that Didn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Dubious consent, touching on things pertaining to Molag Bal, physical restraint, degradation.

The stench of the sullied grounds around the Imperial Waterfront wrinkled Zyvaasthir’s nose as he followed his master’s suite. The little Bosmer had a taste for shady affairs, a foolishness only slightly excused by his choice to keep a Dremora bodyguard. Zyvaasthir, of course, would’ve preferred that his choice had fallen on someone less capable - a Churl would’ve been enough, a Kynreeve like himself was overkill, and they both knew it.

The skooma dealer meeting up with him held similar company; a Caitiff stood in his shadow, and what a tall shadow that was. Due to the man’s cloaked getup, it was impossible to make out what race he was - not that it mattered, it wasn’t him he’d fight if things went awry. The two Dremora sized each other up, expressions of scorn only worn as a badge of loyalty to each their summoner, as was expected; any Kynaz shackled by an even slightly competent mortal would find himself irresistably compliant to his or her whims and desires. A conflict under these circumstances wasn’t personal, and never created long lasting enemies - one could even argue that the loser got the better end of the stick, since he’d get to go back to the Deadlands and further his career until such a time that he was summoned again. Zyvaasthir knew he could beat this Caitiff three times in a row if he had to - and he knew that the other knew, he could see it in his eyes.

As the two mortals bartered over useless drugs, the Caitiff broke eye contact and changed postur ever so slightly, looking down into the bushes with a badly concealed sigh. Zyvaasthir felt a smirk tug at his lips; now that was his opponent’s greatest weakness presently displaying itself: Lack of disciplin, an attribute typical to Churls and the newly crowned Caitiffs. It was tempting to give the other a scolding, but the summoning tied his lips for the time being, and it was likely for the better.

As they stood there, cramped between dark houses, something caught Zyvaasthir’s eye - a glint of light reflected by a nearby window. The only sort to carry around torches were, arguably, the City guard. He gave his master a sidewise eye, and probed the connecton between them - most of the Kyn never bothered to learn to  _ read _ their Conjurer’s intentions. Raw emotion was all they needed from their commander, both on Nirn and in the Deadlands. But he found a certain use in the information that could be garnered, and was as such aware that his master was not yet aware. Loyal only through direct command, Zyvaasthir kept silent about his little secret, returning half his attention to the Caitiff, who had noticed his lapse of alertness, and was squinting at him, now fully on the alert for whatever that might entail. He seemed to think that the threat came from the two in front of him however, and Zyvaasthir raised his eyeridges at him with a mocking smile.  _ Truly? _ he wanted to say,  _ You think I’d give myself away so blatantly if I actually meant you harm? You wouldn’t see it coming, Caitiff _ . But of course, speaking wasn’t something his master indulged him in at a whim.

Now, he didn’t exactly want the Caitiff to notice the threat too, so he changed his posture to something more casual. He polished the claws of his right hand against the palm of the other, transferred his weight to his left foot and blew an imaginary speck off of his thumb, paying close attention to how the approaching torchlight glinted in the black of his talons. Then, he refocused on the Caitiff and grinned - the light had started to reflect on the other’s armour, and awareness had risen him into action. The both of them drew their weapons - with his opponent favouring a bow, and he himself a duo of swords.

“Stop right there!” the lone guard was one of those dashing young Imperials who fancied themselves heroes. That might have been the reason as to why he was stupid enough to take them on himself. Zyvaasthir was on the man in an instant, metal against metal, eyes bored deep into one another. Blue like shock magic, and with a different kind of shock inside of them. Despite his utter failure to call on assistance, a second flame was breaking night too, its presence followed by an audible  _ thwump _ as someone behind Zyvaasthir got hit by an arrow. Meanwhile, the useless Caitiff was backing off, no doubt contemplating an escape route. Zyvaasthir was vaguely aware of the arrows passed him as he fought, one of which took out the archer. Not long after, another arrow passed him, skewering the guard’s throat at such a narrow angle that Zyvaasthir might as well have been the target.

Yet, at this point, he felt his master’s aggression vane, and with the compelling fire quenched, he let the dying guard fall to the ground and turned. On the ground, he saw his Bosmer master crawling over the dead dealer’s body, rifing through the pocket. The man, an Altmer or cross thereof, had been shot through the heart.

“We should leave, there will be more,” he heard himself say as he unsheathed his weapons and, lifting his eyes to survey the area, was startled to realize that somehow he’d been so focused on the dead body, that the Caitiff had escaped him entirely.  _ Why _ the Caitiff was still there, he didn’t know. By all logic, he should be gone, unless, “I don’t think he’s dead,” he said flatly, “his summon is still here.” His master looked up, squinted and made a negative head motion.

“He’s dead,” he confirmed and got up, “and we’ll be dead too, if we stay. I’ll see you back at the den.”

And with that, Oblivion closed on him like an eyelid, and when sight returned to him again, he was back in the Deadlands, where he’d last carried out an order to patroll the area. There was nothing else to it but to take up the task once more, and carry on.


	2. Things get Real

Getting summoned to the mortal plane didn’t come without it’s benefits, as taking a break from carrying out monotone, mind killing orders did wonders for the mind. Zyvaasthir often found himself refreshed after such a discourse, and the punishment that occasionally followed - if his superior was in a bad mood, which he often was - was very well worth it. He knew that yielding to yet another call from his Bosmer master within such a short time period could go one of two ways: Either his superior wouldn’t have noticed he’d been back, and as such thought he’d been summoned for a longer time,  _ or _ he’d be accused of slacking off, nevermind that fighting a summon never truly paid off in the end.

Still, there he was, the cold air of Nirn blasting against his face again as he was thrown through the void, projected into a world that to his eyes was less colorful than his own. The scent of the mortal plane never really agreed with him, although he was almost certain that it had more to do with the poor magical transition between worlds, than it had to do with the actual scents, as even blood had a different odour in his master’s world.

At first, he saw very little. It appeared they were walking down the secret passageway leading away from his master’s home. As the stone wall gradually widened around them, they were delivered into the tomb of Sanguine dreams. The mortals that visited the recluse cavern - which was indeed an abandoned troll’s den decorated with paper lanterns, soft furs and reclined furniture - indulged in alchemical pleasures, spreading fumes and mist in the air, rendering it thick and difficult to breathe.

As they came out on the balcony overlooking the cavern, Zyvaasthir took a lazy look at the mortals below. Most of them were Dunmer or some mixture thereof, engaged in varying degree of debuchery, and the sight was a bit disturbing to him, as he’d been told that it was  _ very _ easy for Sanguine to steal your loyalties if you laid eyes on such carnal activities. For all it was worth, he did consider himself a true member of the Kynaz, and servitude to Sanguine was considered distasteful for one of the Kyn. He’d never tried, but he couldn’t imagine that lending himself for Conjuration in  _ that _ fashion wouldn’t be terribly humiliating and disgusting.

“I have something I’d like to show you,” his master tipped back his hood, shaking off the last remnants of the rain that he’d appearantly transversed to get to this place, “You do remember last week, when the guards nearly caught us in the Waterfront?”

“I do,” Zyvaasthir’s eyes thinned, and he tried to pry some hint from the other’s light brown eyes. He could gather  _ some _ sort of emotional motivation somewhere in there, which made him want to follow and to investigate, “You have captured my curiosity.”

“I’ve captured more than that,” the elf said as he led the way down along the right side of the cavern, where he pressed his palm to the wall. After a series of scraping noises, a large slab of stone slithered out of their way, admitting them entrance into a small, damp room. They stepped in, and as the rock door closed them in again, were plunged into darkness.

Once the darkness receeded, courtesy to a glowing lantern reacting to the Bosmer’s presence, Zyvaasthir could make out a figure, half sat on the ground, arms raised over its head in a weird posture. It was only once he took a step closer that he reckognized the shape of two small horns portruding from the creature’s forehead. The armour was gone, and the previously well kept black hair was ragged and almost spiky, and the eyes that looked up at him were certainly the same. It was the Caitiff. And he was pissed off.

“What do you make of this? Vitano is dead, but his Dremora is still here. It must be a strong binding spell, to outlast its caster…”

“You’d know more about those things than I do, master,” Zyvaasthir heard himself say as he leaned over the figure. This intimidated the Caitiff, and there was a glint of teeth and a warning growl, “You have taken his armour. He no longer has a rank amongst the Kynaz. That was cruel of you,” he looked back to the Bosmer who was staring at his prisoner with fascination, then stirred a bit and seemed confused.

“Cruel?”

“Yes. Now he’s no one. And it was a mortal who did him this way. It would be merciful to kill him,” due to the master’s curiosity about the subject matter, Zyvaasthir found that he could speak relatively freely on the topic, which was quite refreshing.

“And if he died, would he be sent back to your realm?”

“I don’t know where he’d be sent,” Zyvaasthir admitted and looked back at his fellow Kyn, “if he is still here, he might not be Conjured to begin with.”

“You mean, he’s real?” the Bosmer blurted out, which was instantly met with a glare.

“Unlike me, you mean?” Zyvaasthir lifted his head in offense.

“You are just a projection,” he began but then interrupted himself with an eyeroll, “ _ of a real person _ .”

“If he’s here in physical form and get killed, he will have to be reshaped in the Waters of Oblivion. However, he would need a Prince to be kind enough to guide his soul there, and seeing how you’ve humiliated him beyond repair, that might just forgoe happening.”

“So he’d die permanently?” There was a moment’s silence following this, during which the former-Caitiff moved to sit more properly, the chains holding his cuffed hands clinking. It wasn’t an altogether repulsive sight, or at least that was what Zyvaasthir’s master probably felt.

“Has he said anything since you took him with you?” he asked, and found to his annoyance that his voice had gotten rather thick and dark.

“No. I was hoping you’d make more progress than I,” the Bosmer finally took a step back, opened the door again and stepped out, “I’ll give you a day.”


	3. How to get a Caitiff to Speak

There were many ways to conduct interrogation, Zyvaasthir was familiar with the ways of Dagon, Molag Bal and, to a certain degree, Malacath. Usually he’d have a purpose for such an occasion - a question needing an answer, a sadistic desire needing fulfillment, a loyalty needing to be swayed, even a person simply needing to be broken a bit. All those orders made sense, and they’d been given by Kyn, and such were the business between Kynaz that it was all fair and games. But this, this was him doing the bidding of a mortal, and the instructions had been really very vague.  _ Getting someone to talk _ when there was potentially nothing to speak about was not a very appetizing idea.

“You could at least  _ stand _ in front of someone who is clearly your superior,” he said awkwardly, hoping that none of  _ that _ emotion carried across in his message. The whelp in front of him obeyed, getting to his feet, although still shackled to the wall, hands chained by his sides.

The dull light playing on dark red-and-black skin, outlining a heaving, muscular chest, a strong well kept body, and private parts that were so private they were the kind kept internally, which wasn’t an unusual design for a Kynaz to choose upon forming in the Waters. It wasn’t an entirely unusual choice - Dagon’s followers favoured less vulnerability, while Molag Bal’s followers liked to flail it in the open, and Malacath’s followers - well, they liked to emulate the mortals their Prince were so fond of.

He took a deep whiff of the air, and then a step closer. Defiant eyes were glaring back at him and he found it  _ delightful _ in such a young individual.

“How did he do it?” he asked as he realized he was free to ask any question at all, “Lure you out of your armour, I mean. That must have taken some doing.” That face was  _ fierce _ , distorted in a snarl where pointy canines showed from between thin grey lips. He took an inspiration and caught the chin in his right hand, forcing control to be relented to himself, “You will  _ have _ to speak eventually, churl. Ah, now, there it is - you wish to contradict me. To tell me that you’re a  _ Caitiff _ , and no temporary setback can change that, and that I shouldn’t mislable you, even when you know it’s the truth. You’re a nithing now. Chattel belonging to a mortal. Flesh to be observed and studied by mortal eyes. A week he’s kept you here already… tell me, did he commit Sanguine acts with you? Did you like it, or… was it perhaps more of Bal?” he chuckled and let go, running his claw down that dark neck, feeling the pulse so close under the skin. It was actually rather quick. Anger, perhaps, “You liked it, didn’t you?” he crowed and leaned closer, “You want it again…”

“He’s done nothing to me.”

“You give in easily for a Caitiff,” Zyvaasthir teased him with a grin and withdrew. It was really disproportionate, this satisfaction he felt. It reminded him of his services to Bal, and parts of him that used to respond to such cues were easily aroused again, “Now, tell me how he did it.”

“He offered me a bath, in exchange for having saved his life. Mortals are dishonorable,” the Caitiff lifted his chin in continued defiance, “I was drenched in dirt, it was needed. He tricked me.”

“What a pathetic, humiliating story,” Zyvaasthir said with contrasting delight, “it really would be a kindness to kill you and rid you of this taint you now carry in your memory. Tricked by a mortal, chained up and put on display in a private little corner, with mortals fraternizing just outside like animals... You must be suffering terribly from your shame.”

“Shame? Shame are for those of weak composition. What ails me is boredom.”

“Spoken like a true Churl,” a flicker of enthusiasm took over Zyvaasthir, and he closed the distance again. He was aware of his stronger posture, his much larger and more plentiful horns, and the way his smile sometimes ensnared younger Kynaz into most humiliating bodily circumstances, “Now that I’ve gotten you talking,” he suggested rockily, “are you a permanent summon or truly present in this world? How did you get here?”

“Curious for your own sake or for  _ his? _ ” the Caitiff asked darkly with a smile, “Wondering how you might break free from him? How you could use him to come here and wreak havoc, free from the restraint of time and mortal will?” A new aroma was tinting the air, this time more musky, somehow still appetizing despite the strange twist conjuration put on it. Zyvaasthir shuddered and took hold of the other’s chin again, leaning towards him, lips scraping over the sensitive skin leading up to his ear.

“You lack disciplin, Caitiff. You lost your concentration back at the Waterfront, and you’re losing your composition right here, right under my hands, too… I can smell it,” it was spoken with a purr, and it stole the other’s breath away. He’d missed doing this, as Dagon wasn’t exactly permitting of such. Bal and Malacath had been more lenient, but they weren’t his present Princes, especially not with the invasion coming up - he wanted to be on the winning side, after all.

“I - I haven’t been with Kyn for three decades, I think I should be excused -”

“Don’t,” he smacked his left hand up between the Caitiff’s legs, to his delight meeting with a  _ very wet _ entrance there, “contradict. Me,” he punctuated each word with another slap. The scent was getting stronger, and he felt himself get heavy and hot in response. Rubbing the soft pulp of his fingertips over the wet space, he idly wondered… “Are you hiding a cock in here, or would I find an empty space if I were to press on?”

“Please don’t!” the Caitiff tried to close his legs, but instead captured the teasing hand, “You’ve got  _ claws _ .”

“You’re lucky it’s a long time since I followed Molag Bal, or I would’ve taken that as an invitation,” Zyvaasthir grinned and stepped back, undoing his armour, freeing himself from the pressure. He had  _ a day _ , after all. He had to pass the time in one way or another. Surely, he thought to himself, surely you’ll only truly become a follower of Sanguine if it’s a  _ mortal _ you do it with?

“What are you doing now?” the Caitiff was alarmed, although he could tell that he wanted it just as badly as he denied it.

“I got you to talk, I’ve fulfilled my orders, now I get to reap my award,” he dropped his pants just enough to free his dick; a strong, jagged member adorned with soft plating, it’s pointed tip already crowned by black liquid. The Caitiff’s eyes were darkened with lust, lips parted just a bit as desire swept him away. Just the reaction Zyvaasthir had wanted to see.

“Please,” the chains clinked as he changed position, parting his legs and lifting one, and made eye contact, “please, I want it. I want to be as close as Kyn can be.”

It was good, pinning the Caitiff to the wall, lifting his legs and holding them there as he pressed his cock into a hole that felt as though it was slightly too small to be filled. The gasps and strained breaths that the entrance gained him were slightly more from pain than from pleasure, he could tell the difference acutely well. And that was how he liked it, too.

“A bit early to be suffering, isn’t it?” he teased with a satisfied growl, “If you think this hurts, just you wait until I’m done with you… and the worst part is that you,” he lowered his voice a chuckled, “you’ll want it again. You’ll  _ crave _ it again. And when I’m dismissed from this realm, you’ll be begging our master to summon me again. To interrogate you, to humiliate you, to disciplin you and to fuck you,” each word was accompained by a thrust, and this speech continued onto further details as to what he’d do to him in the future, what he’d turn him into - a thing of Sanguine, if nothing else, which was a terrible threat for a Kynaz - until he found himself cumming, splashing the wall and both of them with the dark liquids of nothingness that their kind sometimes shared with one another. The climax itself came slightly later, as he bit down on the Caitiff’s shoulder, marking him and forcing him to orgasm, groaning as that hot cunt contracted around his dick, milking him until he thought he’d become light hearted from sexual content.

At long last, he withdrew and, drying blood from the corner of his mouth, looked at the spent, degraded nithing in front of him with a predatory smile;

“I believe we have another twenty hours or so to go.”


End file.
